Scars

Thankfully no one ever asked him about the scars.

There was two of them, long and stiff. One ran from his collarbone to his hip, the other across his shoulders. They were thick and pink, raised ridges on the otherwise flawless porcelain of his skin. They didn't hurt anymore, though they had for a long time. They weren't even stiff in the winter. All they were was reminders. Reminders of a time long past. Reminders of the secret he had lived with for so long.

He remembered vividly the day he had gotten his scars. He was ten, and his father was drunk.

It was no surprise that, his father being drunk. For as long as Pythagoras could remember his father had been in a constant state of insobriety. His father consumed alcohol the way that other men consumed oxygen, frequently and in abundance. They would have been well off, Pythagoras reckoned, if their father didn't spend every copper on ale. His father was a respected carpenter, his mother a weaver. Pythagoras ran errands for merchants and delivered messages. And still, they starved.

It was a chilly day in winter, the day he got his scars. The wind blew from the north, cutting to the bone. Fog rolled in off the bay, penetrating the mainland. The night was dark and winter solstice was fast approaching. It was a cold night in their small home. A small fire, fueled by sawdust and shavings from their father's shop burned in the fireplace, doing little to penetrate the chill that had settled over the island of Samos. Pythagoras was minding his brother, entertaining the three year old Arcus as his mother tried to add substance to the icy water that was to serve as their supper. Their father was, as usual, drunk.

He sat in a corner, staring stupidly into the fire, a flagon clutched in one hand. He had been thrown from the tavern that evening for starting a brawl. He had staggered home in a state of terrifying calm, and settled himself in the corner. So far he had been silent, not even acknowledging his wife and two sons. Afraid to remind the patriarch of their presence, Pythagoras and his family remained silent. As the moon rose, an uneasy peace descended over the house.

For a few blissful moments Pythagoras permitted his mind to wander through sunny fields of hope. Perhaps his father was getting better. Perhaps the gods had heard his mother's prayers, and his father had stopped drinking, or at the least had turned from a mean drunk to some other, kindlier type of drunk. His father wasn't bad, honestly. On the rare, extremely rare, occasions when he was almost sober he was very amiable. He would tell Arcus stories of his time as a soldier, and he wouldn't hit Pythagoras and his mother so much. During those times his mother smiled, and Pythagoras walked on air. There was jokes, food, smiles. And for brief moments, Pythagoras' skin was not mottled with bruises.

Pythagoras rolled the ball across the room. His arm ached from the motion. Angry red bruises circled his wrists, and yellow, purple, black spots dotted his arms like a disease. Arcus, the only unbruised member of the family, with a happy baby smile on his face, tottered after it. For a moment they almost seemed like a happy family, then Arcus stumbled and fell, banging his head on the ground. He looked up at them all, surprised. For a moment it seemed as if he would go about his life, letting peace prevail. Then, turning an unhappy shade of maroon, he screwed up his face, and began to wail.

In a flash, the uneasy peace evaporated like fog on a summer morning. His mother looked up, petrified as her husband lurched at her.

"Stupid woman!" he yelled, his words slurring together "Can't you keep a hand on your son?"

His mother flinched as he lunged toward her, his fist raised.

"Stop." Pythagoras grabbed his father's arm, pulling him away from his mother "It wasn't her fault."

"Don't you touch me boy," His father roared, turning on Pythagoras "I'm your father-"

Pythagoras tuned out the rest of the well known speech as his stomach descended to the very depths of Hades. His father was going to beat him again, he just knew it. He wasn't sure if he would survive another beating, he already hurt all over. The very act of breathing was painful.

"Listen to me!" his father screamed, shaking him violently "You never listen."

"I-I'm sorry." Pythagoras stammered "I am listen-"

"Don't lie!" he shouted, effortlessly flinging his diminutive son across the room. Pythagoras hit the wall with a dull thud, briefly seeing sparks. His father staggered across the room and grabbed their sole knife from the small table.

"Galen don't." his mother grabbed his father, pulling him back "Galen, he's only a boy-"

His father slapped her, sending her backwards, and advanced on Pythagoras.

Pythagoras curled up small, protecting his head with bird thin arms. He drew his knees in to his chest, tucking them underneath his chin. He tried to be brave, tried to be still. He wouldn't give his father the satisfaction of seeing him shake with fear.

A rough hand grabbed him by the hair, dragging him into a sitting position. Pythagoras found himself face to face with his father, staring into wide blue eyes, so much like his own, but bloodshot with wine. "I will teach you not to lie to me." his father growled, blowing stinking wine breath into his face.

Pythagoras felt his resolve dissipate as the rusted knife approached his shivering. "Please-" he begged.

His father smiled, and slashed across his chest.

Pythagoras woke up warm, which was unusual. He also didn't know where he was, which was less unusual.

The room was white, white and narrow. Drying plants hung from the ceiling, complimenting the living herbs that grew in pots on the windowsill. There was a narrow table, covered in bottles and bowls, littered with parchment.

A familiar kindly hand stopped him as he tried to sit up "Rest Pythagoras"

"M-mother?" he choked out "Mother?"

"Ssh," she said "It's okay, just rest."

"Where am I?" he asked, turning to look at her.

"You're with the healer," she said "You've been here for a few days, everything is fine."

"Mother," he tried to sit up. They couldn't afford a healer, what where they doing? His life wasn't worth this.

"Rest Pythagoras." she said firmly, pushing him down "Everything is fine, I've taken care of it."

He laid back, but couldn't help worrying "Mother-" he began

"It's fine." she said firmly"You don't have to take care of everything Pythagoras, you are just a child."

He pursed his lips in frustration. "The knife-" he said.

"I've gotten rid of it." she said firmly "We'll get by without for now. I won't have your father take my children from me."

There was a stirring in the room, and the healer, a short, bearded, white haired man, came up to stand behind his mother. He put a kindly hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and smiled.

"Hello young man." he said "It's good to see you awake. You gave us quite a scare."

Pythagoras shifted uneasily.

"I need to go." his mother said, standing up. "You'll watch over him?"

"I'll keep him out of trouble." the healer said. " Don't worry Parthia, I'll take care of him."

"Thank you Hippocrates." she said, embracing him "You don't know how much this means to me."

He smiled at her, touching her face "Don't worry about it." he whispered "He's safe with me."

She gave him one last look, then fled.

Hippocrates looked lost for a moment, then resumed his mask of pleasantness. He came over to his bedside "You were lucky." he said "Your father missed anything vital. You'll have scars, but you'll heal."

Pythagoras shifted again. "Thank you." he said.

Hippocrates smiled at him sadly "Don't worry about it young man." he said "I would never turn your mother away. She's an amazing woman." Hippocrates grabbed a bowl from the table. "I need to examine your wounds," he explained "Just to make sure I've gotten rid of the infection-"he said. He lifted the blanket. Pythagoras began to shiver as the cold air swept across his naked skin. He looked down to see an angry red scab running the length of his chest.

Hippocrates examined the scab, applying cold goop from the bowl to his chest.

"What are you doing?" Pythagoras asked

"Trying to draw out the infection." Hippocrates murmured "You see these red streaks? There was something on that knife, and its gotten into your blood and infected you. It's a good thing that your mother brought you to me, or you might have died."

"What?" Pythagoras asked, panic building in his chest

"Don't worry about it." Hippocrates said "You're fine now."

Pythagoras didn't feel fine. His father had almost killed him. He might have died.

"You'll be fine." Hippocrates said "You'll live for your father to bruise another day. But you'll stay here until you're well, and after that I can teach you my art. Would you like that?"

Pythagoras nodded eagerly.

"Good" Hippocrates said "We'll make a fine healer of you someday."

"Thank you." Pythagoras said.

"Sure," Hippocrates waved him off "Anything for Parthia's son."